


I Want You So Much (But I Hate Your Guts)

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: A Modern Royals AU based on the prompt: your country’s trying to take over/annex my country and you’re making it difficult to hate you because you’re so nice and attractive stop it.





	I Want You So Much (But I Hate Your Guts)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AliceInNeverNeverLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/gifts).



This was my birthday present this year to the lovely [AliceInNeverNeverLand](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/pseuds/AliceInNeverNeverLand).  An accompanying edit can be found [here](http://blackholeofprocrastination.tumblr.com/post/160527810016/i-want-you-so-much-but-i-hate-your-guts-to-my). 

**I Want You So Much (But I Hate Your Guts)**

“Sansa?”

A hand touches her elbow and she turns. Her smile becomes more strained when she sees who has drawn her attention. 

Sansa thought Jon had left for the evening with Robb and the others. It was the knowledge that the visiting Targaryen prince was occupied in Robb’s study that had allowed Sansa to relax for the first time all night.

But it seems her hope for a reprieve from this… _thing_ that seems to linger between the two of them was foolhardy. 

“Your highness.”

Jon’s face falls a little at her use of his title. 

Sansa regrets it for a moment (he is so very handsome when he smiles) but she knows it is better to keep a distance. She can no longer trust herself around the prince. Not after what happened in the stables the previous day.

Sansa really shouldn’t be surprised Jon is not with Robb and the Northern lords. He has what he wanted from them for the evening. Tomorrow morning’s papers in the South would be riddled with photographs of Jon and Robb shaking hands before tonight’s dinner. They will see it as a victory. A step on the road to bringing the North into the fold.

Sansa doubts the editor at the _Winter Town Times_ will have the same take.

This is the first state visit a Targaryen has made to Winterfell in over a century. The timing of it is not lost on Sansa. After three years of civil war, the South has settled itself. King Aegon is secured, unchallenged. He is at leave to turn to _other_ pursuits.

No formal overtures have been made but with the annexation of Dorne back into Targaryen hands there can be little doubt what the Southern king intends.

He chose his envoy well, she thinks, regarding Jon. He is a cousin, a Stark on his mother’s side, and it shows. He has the same long face as her father and uncles.

A dragon in wolf’s clothing.  

“Have you enjoyed yourself, your highness?”

Jon seems to shake out of his sulk and nods.

“I..yes. Yes, it was a lovely evening.” He pauses. “I regret I didn’t see much of you at dinner.”

“Oh? I suppose not.”

It had been by design. Sansa was not about to take any chances.

Already, they were fodder for the tabloids. Just earlier that week she’d woken to Arya bounding into her room, brandishing her phone with breaking news from the crack journalists at WestrosiTeenScene[.]com. Usually Sansa enjoyed sharing in her sister’s glee over the increasingly stupid things written about them on tabloid sites, but this time she didn’t find it so funny.

Truthfully, as far as articles concerning her love life went, it was rather tame. Just a handful of grainy photos of her and Jon enjoying lunch at a restaurant in the city accompanied by a clickbait headline and a few lines of drivel teasing at a ‘hidden romance’. The whole thing was made even less salacious by the presence of Rickon in the photographs, sitting happily between them, his face sticky from his ice cream. Still, it hit a bit too close to the mark for Sansa’s liking.

A select and vetted group of press were permitted to cover this evening, and while their journalistic integrity was a cut above those at WestrosiTeenScene[.]com, Sansa was not about to give them any ammunition. She’d spoken with her mother’s personal secretary early this morning with alterations for the seating at tonight’s dinner.

Sansa had spent the meal safely and unremarkably engaged in conversation with Lord Cerwyn, a boyhood friend of Robb’s. She had found him to be nice enough, if a little dull, as he chiefly wished to speak of the weather and shooting.

She had hardly spared a thought for the Southron prince seated at the far end of the table, and she most certainly did not notice any dark looks he might have shot in poor Cley’s direction.

“I had hoped that…” Jon begins, taking a step closer to her. “That is…might we speak in _private_?”

His voice lowers at the end of the request so as not to be overheard. It sparks a memory of other murmured things and a shiver runs down her spine.

A part of Sansa wants to brush him off with some sharp remark and stop this before it can begin. Surely he knows there is no such thing as ‘private’ for people like them.

But a larger part of her is too focused on the warmth of the hand that still lingers at her elbow and the heat behind those familiar, Stark eyes.

She scans the hall. Only a few guests remain, most having left after the king took his leave. Across the room she can see where Mama is in conversation with Lady Leona, the prime minister’s wife.

For all that Jon is the guest of honor at tonight’s festivities, no one seems particularly interested in him cornering the king’s eldest sister. 

“Do you like art, your highness?”

Jon frowns, confused by her abrupt change of subject.

“I–yes, I suppose.”

“We have a collection of Lyseni watercolors hanging in the east gallery,” she says leadingly. “They’re nothing compared to the Red Keep’s collection of course, but–”

“I should like to see them,” Jon says, catching on at last.

Sansa blames the sudden fluttering in her stomach on too much wine with dinner. It most certainly has nothing to do with the soft smile that tugs at Jon’s mouth as he looks at her.

Without a word she turns on her heel and slips out the nearest door. She doesn’t look to see if Jon follows. She doesn’t have to.

Sansa cuts through a corridor that is still bustling with staff clearing away the evidence of tonight’s supper. She can feel Jon’s hand hovering near the small of her back, guiding her through the throng.

They are largely ignored. The staff at Winterfell are too used to the Stark children making shortcuts out of service halls and back stairways. Still, a few stop in their work long enough to bow and stare starry-eyed at Jon. He murmurs a few “hellos”, thanking them all for their hard work.

Sansa bites back a smile. She wishes he would quit being so decent all of the time. It made it difficult to remember all of the reasons she was meant to loathe him.

The gallery she pulls him into is in a wing of the keep that is used for tours when the family is not in residence. It is abandoned now and Sansa is sure no one will think to look for them here.

She does not search out the switch for the lights. It is a clear night outside and moonlight streams in through the high narrow windows, casting lines of light across the floor. Sansa thinks it is perhaps better if they remain in semi-darkness. As if it made any of this less real.

Jon wanders ahead of her, taking in the gallery, his head craning to look at the elaborate depictions of the godswood painted along the vaulted ceiling.

His dinner jacket is open and his tie hangs loose about his neck. Sansa clenches her hands at her side, the urge to straighten his appearance at war with the equally strong urge to help him undo a button or two of his starched, white shirt.

“I like this one,” Jon says, stopping in front of a large oil painting, mercifully oblivious to the way Sansa was just ogling him.

She looks to see which one he means, and smiles.

“The Dawn of Spring. 208 AC. Artist unknown.”

“And what are these?” Jon gestures to the figures hidden among the flowers and trees. “Fairies?”

“Children of the forest,” Sansa corrects. 

There’s no standing on ceremony now that it is just the two of them. Sansa steps out of her heels and breathes a contented sigh, the cool floor soothing on her poor, pinched soles.

When she was very little, she and her siblings used to sneak away from their nanny and spend hours hidden in this wing of the keep, playing hide-and-seek and sliding across the marble floors in socked feet.

Sansa slides one foot experimentally, her silk stockings gliding smoothly over the floor. She smiles, pushing into a twirl, the straps of her shoes hooked over a finger.

She is about to launch into a pirouette when she realizes Jon is no longer looking at the painting. He is looking at her.

The bare admiration on his face might have embarrassed her anywhere else but here in the shadows it makes her bold.  

Without her shoes, she’s more of a height with him, and it is easy to cover his smile with a playful kiss. He reaches to draw her closer only for her to dance out of his grasp.

“Now this tapestry is an acquistion of my mother’s,” Sansa nods to the the next piece on the wall, pleased by the dazed way Jon stares after her. “It originally was owned by one of the Sea Lords of Braavos some time before the Conquest.”

They continue their way down the line of artwork in this fashion. Jon makes one or two more attempts at ‘distracting’ her, but soon is engrossed in the information and stories Sansa shares with each work.

They’ve reached one of Sansa’s favorites, a depiction of Bael the Bard performing in the Great Hall of Winterfell, when Jon speaks at last.

“So what is the penalty, then?” he interrupts the tale, shooting her a cheeky smile. “For stealing away with a Stark daughter?”

Sansa arches a brow.

“Well, eventually he was brought back to Winterfell,” she answers. “Or rather, his _head_ was brought back.”

Jon chokes on a cough, looking uncomfortable, and Sansa laughs.

He recovers and with a sheepish nod, gestures her to continue through to a part of the gallery she knows well.

Here hang the portraits of the great Stark Kings of Winter.

Robb’s is the most prominent. It was commissioned shortly after his coronation at Mama’s insistence, but as Sansa considers the likeness, she wonders if it would not have been better to have waited. Robb has grown into kingship, has been changed by it, and the leader he has become has very little in common with this frightened, grieving boy who stares down at her, standing so stiffly under the weight of his ornate, military arrayment.  

She does not look at the portrait of her father that hangs beside Robb’s. She cannot bear it. Still, she lets the fingers of the hand not holding her shoes lovingly touch the small, bronze placard bearing his name.

She will not linger here. She drags Jon to the other end of the hall, stopping only to occasionally comment on this king or that.

They are midway through when Jon stops of his own accord. He squints in the dim gallery to read the placard.

“Torrhen Stark.” He blinks before looking up at the fierce figure dressed in mail and furs. “The King who Knelt.”

And just like that, everything between them sours.

Sansa scowls.

“Sansa…”

But no, she does not care what he has to say. She is too angry. Angry at him for spoiling everything with this unwelcome reminder of why he is here. Angry at herself for not hating him when she should.

She is about to storm off. To leave him here and let him find his own way back. But then he is stopping her, one hand cupping the back of her neck to pull her into a bruising kiss.

It is the first time he’s initiated anything like this between them. In his short month at Winterfell, he has always been patient. Gentlemanly. Always waiting for her to take the lead. There’s nothing patient about the way he kisses her now.

She cannot breath. She cannot think. She can only grip onto his jacket, reeling into his body, meeting his kiss with the same fierce hunger.

A loud clack echoes through the hall. She has dropped her shoes. She doesn’t care. Her hand reaches to tangle in his curls, tugging him closer, his hands and mouth the only things tethering her to the earth.

“Sansa,” he murmurs again, once their kisses have gentled to fleeting passes of lips, their shared breath fast and warm against their faces. He presses one more kiss to her lips, this one tender, an apology, before pulling away. 

It is now a _Targaryen_ who kneels before a Stark. Sansa stares in shock as he sinks before her.

_He’s ruining his suit_ , she thinks all while his hands are bunching up the hem of her dress. 

She knows where he is going with this ( _after all, she has first hand knowledge of just how very talented that mouth of his can be_ ) but they’ve already been away for too long. It’s only a matter time before someone thinks to look for them. 

Sansa is about to say as much when she feels the brush of lips against the skin of her hipbone while grey eyes stare hungrily up at her and then _gods_ Sansa couldn’t give a damn about the state of Jon’s suit or getting caught or any of it. She just needs Jon’s mouth on her _now_! 

Jon does not seem to share her sense of urgency. He takes his time rolling her stockings down her legs, peppering her newly exposed skin with kisses. The rasp of his beard on her thighs sends tingles up her spine.

By the time he reaches for the waistband of her panties, Sansa has had _enough_ teasing, helping him to shimmy them down her legs and kicking them off to Seven knows where. 

He chuckles, his hands moving up the backs of her legs until one is splayed under the apple of each bottom cheek to tug her closer. Jon leans forward, trailing teasing kisses on the inside of her thighs but neglecting where she wants him most.

“Jon, if you don’t–” Sansa’s voice trails off into an embarrassing sort of squeak as Jon’s lips close around her nub. She tries to keep hold of the hem of her gown so she might see his face. 

The first time he’d done this, her mortification had nearly outweighed the pleasure of it and afterwards she could scarcely meet his eye. 

But Jon had a way of wearing away at her inhibitions. At creeping under the manners and smiles and expectations to unearth the raw, wanting thing that is currently trembling against his mouth.

_Ice Queen_. It’s the name that’s followed her around since her early teens, when her first tangle with love had ended so very badly (an so very, _very_ publicly). 

She’d been barely sixteen then and still shy of the press, but Joffrey wasn’t shy at all. So while Sansa nursed her broken heart in the privacy of her Aunt Lysa’s ski chalet in the Vale, Joffrey had blabbed to every gossip rag who would listen about his lackluster fling with a Northern princess. 

_Frigid_ , he’d called her. _Unfeeling_. _Dull_.

Sansa doesn’t feel any of those things now. Not with the heated way Jon is looking up at her, a flush creeping into his face as his mouth works her over. A finger joins his mouth and _gods_ her legs start to buckle beneath her. 

She forfeits her hold on her skirts, letting them fall over her lover’s head as grips at his shoulders for balance. Jon doesn’t seem to mind. If anything it seems to spur him on, his tongue and fingers moving faster. 

Her peak comes over her quickly, intensely, and for a moment all she can do is clutch at Jon. He rides her through it, his mouth never leaving her, though his licks and kisses gentle some. 

She tries to collect herself after, despite how wobbily on her legs feel beneath her. She knows they should go. It was already foolish to have let things transpire this far.

But then Jon emerges out from under her skirts, wiping at his mouth, and looking far too smug for her liking. 

_This won’t do._

Before Jon can utter a word, Sansa is knelt on the ground palming him through his trousers. She is pleased to see that arrogant little smirk replaced with raw pleading. 

“Sansa…”

Jon sighs. His forehead rests at the crook of her neck, his breath skimming over her collarbone in rough, warm pants as she undoes his belt and trousers and takes him in hand. 

Sansa doesn’t like how clumsy she still is at this, but she supposes she must be doing something right, for Jon has his arm around her waist tugging her closer as he hunches, taut, muttering all sorts of filth into her skin. 

She’s disappointed when he pushes her away, hurriedly fumbling in his jacket for a handkerchief, before coming in his own hand. His eyes stay on her as he does it and it is her name on his lips as he peaks. In an odd way, it seems more intimate than when she was touching him. More private, somehow.

He cleans off his hand and tucks himself back into his trousers. He then reaches for her, tugging her into lap and nuzzling into her cheek. She turns her head and kisses him. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs as his lips move to press kisses to her cheek, her forehead, her nose, her chin. Her head is cupped in his hands and he drags the pad of his thumb across her lip. She pretends to nip at it and he chuckles, drawing her in close and pressing his forehead to her. “Someone should paint _you,”_ he teases. “So that all this beauty can be preserved..for posterity’s sake, of course.”

She laughs.

“They have.”

He pulls away, a strange look on his face.

“Jon…” she warns, but he is already getting to his feet (and trying to drag her with him).

“Show me.”

“No.”

“I want to see!”

“No!” 

She is up now, her stockings and shoes in one hand her panties…she snatches them out of a grinning Jon’s grasp and steps into them quickly, along with the stockings and shoes, righting her appearance as best she can. She scowls when she looks down at the state of her gown. She hopes her ladies maids won’t comment when they see it’s in need of additional steaming. 

All the while Jon continues to goad her, pleading that his tour of their collection could not be complete without seeing her likeness, and that the fate of the reputation of Northern hospitality rested on her shoulders!

“Fine!” Sansa finally agrees, rolling her eyes. 

She escorts him back to the family wing, leading him past the private dining room to a corridor tucked near a small library annex. There in a large gilt frame hangs the first (and as of yet only) portrait of Sansa and her sister. 

Sansa frowns as she considers the portrait. She can barely recognize the girl in it. 

It was painted when Papa was still alive. She could’t be more than eleven. 

She still remembers sitting for it. How Arya has sulked and fidgeted in her seat. How Sansa had huffed and complained when she found that they would be wearing _matching_ blue and grey gowns. How the taffeta of the skirt had itched terribly and how tedious it was to stand still for so long. 

But Papa had smiled when he received it on his nameday, and Sansa supposed it had been worth all the trouble after all.

Sansa glances over at Jon as he studies the painting, wondering what it is _he_ sees. 

“Happy now?”

He laughs, turning to face her. 

“Very.”

The expression on his face is not familiar. It’s not annoyance or teasing or discomfort or want. It’s a sort of…fondness. Something warm and genuine, almost like…

Sansa’s heart gives a queer sort of leap in her chest. He can’t. _They_ can’t.

She panics. With half-muttered excuse she flees, practically tripping over her feet to get to the stairwell, her pulse thundering in her ears.

Leaving an important guest stranded in a corridor went against everything her governess had taught her, but it was hardly the worst of her transgressions tonight. 

_Perhaps it’s not too late in the season to join Aunt Lysa on the coast after all…_


End file.
